Thank You, Maria Colvin

In a crater
in an apartment in Homs,
there is a satchel
of ripstop nylon
that will not melt
even at mortar temperatures,
covered now in pulverized stone -
a kit of necessity smuggled
to families become infernal

under a sin of shells arcing darkly
into hollow kitchens and gardens,
through air sick with your
last breath and the scorched flesh  
from scores of Syrians.

Save a journal,
what does a witness pack
that's not already abandoned
at the end of the world?
You've brought back all we can take:
a boy lies in his shattered street,
belly rising and falling until he dies.